


Heaven Help The Fools Who Fall in Love

by FlyingMachine1



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, antagonists antagonizing, how do tags work, some strong homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6530668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMachine1/pseuds/FlyingMachine1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'What happened to your face?'</p>
<p>There was another flicker of a moment when Courfeyrac considered telling Combeferre everything, about the bullies, about his true feelings, but that’s when the words of the three men came back to him, ‘He must hate you for coming on to him. He must think you’re disgusting!’"</p>
<p>(Or the Courferre fic where Courfeyrac is bullied and made to feel insecure)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Help The Fools Who Fall in Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheUnknownKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnknownKnight/gifts).



“You know, you’re the only person I know who can pull off a bow tie with such elegance,”

Courfeyrac tried his best not to melt into a puddle as Combeferre laughed and absentmindedly straightened his already perfectly level bow tie.

“That’s quite the high compliment.” The taller boy noted, his smile belying his sarcastic tone.

“I just appreciate a man who can pull off unusual neck wear and this,” he reached up and flicked at the bow tie, earning himself a half-hearted slap, “is definitely unusual.”

“Oh, and you’re one to talk.” Combeferre scoffed. “What does your shirt even mean?” Courfeyrac stopped in his tracks so suddenly, Combeferre walked on a few steps before realizing he was alone.

“Are you telling me you have never experienced _Mean Girls_?” Courfeyrac gasped in a scandalized tone, one hand flying up to grip his bright pink sweatshirt.

“But it’s not even Wednesday,” Combeferre argued, reading the large white block letters on the other boy’s shirt.

“That’s not the _point_ , ugh, okay,” Courfeyrac continued walking, stopping when he reached the crossroads where he and Combeferre would part ways to head to their respective apartments. “You, me, and _Mean Girls_ , this Friday at my place. Non-negotiable.”

Combeferre smiled, something unreadable in his expression. “I’ll bring the popcorn.”

“Oh, you do know the way to a man’s heart,” Courfeyrac teased with a wink, and he could have sworn he saw Combeferre’s cheeks redden before he turned away.

“See you in class tomorrow!” the med student called over his shoulder as he jogged across the street and disappeared around a corner.

Courfeyrac stood there for a moment, staring at the place where Combeferre had been, as if he could will him to return, and let out a long sigh. One of these days he would work up the courage to ask Ferre out on a proper date. He would have to wait, of course, for a day when the taller man wasn’t so intimidatingly gorgeous, or brilliant, or Courf hadn’t said anything stupid that day, or-

“Hey you, lover boy!”

The harsh voice startled Courfeyrac out of his reverie. Turning around, he saw three vaguely familiar men walking towards him. They looked like the type of guys Éponine would describe as “fuck boys;” backwards baseball cap and shorts that were in desperate need of a belt. Something about the way they were leering at him made Courfeyrac instantly uneasy.

“Can I help you?” Courfeyrac settled on asking, trying to convince himself that everything would be fine, that these men were probably just looking for directions or something equally as innocent.

"Oh, I bet you would like that, wouldn’t you?” the one closest to him said, his tone anything but innocent.

“Um… well I’d be happy to help if you’re… um…” the three men had closed in, forming a ring around him. Courfeyrac swallowed.

“What, if we’re looking for a good cock sucking?” The man directly behind him crowed and Courfeyrac whipped around to gape at the man, fear gripping his chest in earnest now.

“I– I don’t know what you’re –”

“Don’t try to deny it, you faggot,” Courfeyrac winced at the word. “I mean, hell, look at how you’re dressed! And don’t think we haven’t seen you around campus, always feeling up those other cock suckers like you.”

Suddenly, Courfeyrac knew why these men looked so familiar; they lived in that dumpy looking frat house down the road. As Jehan had once put it, their weekly parties had all the extravagance of Gatsby with none of the class. And exponentially more booze. Another part of Courfeyrac’s brain supplied that the men they claimed to see him with were most likely his fellow members of Les Amis de L’ABC, seeing as he was the clingy sort when it came to people he just met, let alone his closest friends (though, he would never call it “feeling up” and figured these men’s hypersensitivity to today’s masculinity standards had greatly exaggerated Courfeyrac’s usual hugs and general draping of himself over his friends in their eyes).

“What do you want?” Courfeyrac fought to keep his voice steady.

“Just for you to know what real men look like,” jeered the man to his left before stepping forward and shoving Courfeyrac hard to the ground. Mud splattered all over his jeans and shirt.

The man who first spoke stepped forward, pausing for a moment, making an obscenely disgusting sound before spitting, the globy saliva striking Courfeyrac across the face and lodging in his hair.

“Sick faggot,” the man hissed before he and his friends walked away, leaving a horrified and miserable Courfeyrac in the mud.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Courf, is something bothering you?” Combeferre asked on their usual walk home together from class. Courfeyrac had been quiet today, which for someone else might have been a sign of slight concern, but for Courfeyrac, quiet meant he had either lost his voice during a particularly raucous night of karaoke with Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire, or something was really and truly bothering him. And as far as Combeferre knew, there had been no karaoke the night before.

For a moment, Courfeyrac considered telling the other man what happened with the three frat guys the previous night, but stopped himself. Amongst his friends, Courfeyrac’s pansexuality was no secret, but his major crush on the brilliant, stunning, and nearly perfect man before him was. Well, okay, his friends probably all knew, but Combeferre didn’t (the stupidly oblivious, wonderful man). And if there was one thing Courfeyrac didn’t want to appear in front of the other man, it was weak.

With that thought, Courfeyrac could practically hear one of Enjolras’s anti-bullying speeches, proclaiming the only truly weak ones were the bullies themselves and whatnot. But still…

“Courfeyrac?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he sighed and feigned a yawn. “Just tired.”

Combeferre looked dubious, but let the matter drop. “So, do I have to wear pink to the movie on Friday?”

Courfeyrac smiled in earnest for what felt like the first time that day. “Of course you do! I would be insulted if you didn’t.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to do that.” Combeferre replied with a smirk. Courfeyrac could practically feel his brain short circuiting.

“You also can’t get mad at me when I quote along with the movie.”

Combeferre laughed. It sounded like springtime. More short circuiting. “You mean like how Bossuet does? I thought he was going to throw the popcorn bowl at your face if you said one more of Aragorn’s lines during _‘Lord of the Rings_ -athon 2k15.’”

“I can’t help it,” Courfeyrac defended with put upon passion. “I feel so sexy speaking all epic and medieval like Aragorn does. It’s not something I can control.”

Combeferre opened his mouth, then closed it, seeming to rethink what he was going to say, before settling on “Well, I promise I won’t get mad if you decide you need to quote along.”

“Ferre, you are an absolute peach,”

Combeferre’s face twisted into a smile and something else that maybe Courfeyrac could have detected had they not suddenly come upon the crossroads where they parted ways. His stomach sank at the realization.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Combeferre drew Courfeyrac’s attention back to him.

“Yeah, see you.”

“Make sure you get some sleep!” Combeferre called over his shoulder.

“Yeah, will do,” Courfeyrac muttered to the now empty space before him, feeling his previous glum attitude creep up on him now that he was alone.

“Hey, gay boy!”

Or not alone.

As his heart sank into his shoes, a distant part of Courfeyrac’s brain was screaming at him to run, but he couldn’t seem to get legs to respond. It was too late anyway, though; the three men were already upon him, forming an all too familiar circle around him. Courfeyrac felt like crying. Why were they doing this to him? Why wouldn’t they just leave him alone?

“So, who was that you were with? Your boyfriend?” drawled the man to his left. Courfeyrac stiffened at the mention of Combeferre.

“Hey, fag, he asked you a question!” Courfeyrac was suddenly shoved from behind and he stumbled forward a few steps, only just managing to catch himself before he fell.

“…no…” he whispered, barely audible.

“What was that?” The first one stepped forward and gripped Courfeyrac by his brown curls, tugging his head sharply back and eliciting a cry from his victim.

“No! He’s n-not my- my boyfriend!” Courfeyrac cried, cursing himself as he felt tears welling up in his eyes.

“Aw, he’s crying!” one of them, at this point Courfeyrac wasn’t even sure which, crowed out, which only made him want to cry all the more. “You must have it real bad for that guy!”

“He must hate you for coming on to him,” the one holding Courfeyrac hissed. “He must think you’re disgusting.”

“…h-he… he doesn’t,” Courfeyrac breathed, his voice cracking along with his heart.

The man laughed. It was a cruel sound. “Are you kidding me? You’re sick! You’d fuck anything that movies! No one could want that.”

He finally released Courfeyrac, causing the latter’s knees to buckle as he fell roughly to the ground, the jagged pavement digging into his cheek. He had neither the strength nor will to get up for a long while, even after the three men had sauntered off, cackling. Courfeyrac just laid there, his sobs the only noise occasionally piercing the crisp evening air.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next day, Courfeyrac didn’t wait for Combeferre in their normal spot for their walk home. In fact, he had managed to successfully avoid the other man all day. As much as he hated it, the three men’s words had gotten to him. He was a flirtatious person by nature, but always tried to up his game with Combeferre because with Combeferre it was…different. With Combeferre, it mattered.

But now there was a new, malicious voice in his head. _‘Does it? Does it matter?’_ Because Combeferre was such a polite person, he wouldn’t have the heart to tell Courfeyrac if it didn’t, or if it bothered him. Thinking back, however, a horribly clear answer was forming in his head. All of Combeferre’s blushing and stammering at Courfeyrac’s more brazen flirtations, especially coming from one as eloquent and confident as Combeferre, were great, physical neon signs that screamed ‘Discomfort!’ right in his face, but Courfeyrac was too goddamned enamored to notice.

God, he must look so pathetically _desperate_ in Combeferre’s eyes, so _stupidly naïve_. How could he ever think he could have a chance with someone like Combeferre, someone as poised and special and just so… _Combeferre_? This whole time, Courfeyrac had thought Combeferre was the (endearingly) oblivious one, but as it would seem, he was the one who was (not so endearingly) blind.

“Courfeyrac?”

Speeding up his pace, Courfeyrac prayed he was just imagining things, but after a few tension filled moments, a hand came to rest on his shoulder, forcing him to a stop. Even so, Courfeyrac kept his head down, pulling the hood of his jacket further forward over his curls.

“Courf? I almost didn’t recognize you in black; I didn’t know you even owned anything that wasn’t in neon,” Combeferre gave a slight laugh, but there was something almost nervous about it, like a combination of an awkward chuckle and a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, well…” Courfeyrac wasn’t even sure how to act around Combeferre now. He wasn’t used to feeling so severely inadequate and insecure around the other man.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He could swear Combeferre’s tone was worried, but he still kept his head down. “Courfeyrac,”

Suddenly, there were fingers on Courfeyrac’s chin, gently forcing him to face upwards toward Combeferre.

“What happened to your face?”

There was another flicker of a moment when Courfeyrac considered telling the taller man everything, about the bullies, about his true feelings, but that’s when the words of the three men came back to him, _‘He must hate you for coming on to him. He must think you’re disgusting!’_

He then realized how incredibly desperate and childish he would sound going to Ferre about three guys being mean to him and – more importantly – how heartbroken he would be to confirm that Combeferre truly didn’t care.

And of course, he couldn’t even think of the rejection he would feel if he admitted to being in love with Combeferre. That was just too much to stomach.

“I tripped walking home yesterday,” the lie was out almost without Courfeyrac having to think about it. There was something close to disbelief on Combeferre’s face with a hint of something else, but before Courfeyrac could think to put a name to it, he was distracted by the other man suddenly pulling his hand away from Courf’s face, as if he had forgotten his long fingers had still been resting delicately on Courfeyrac’s chin.

“Um…so we still on for the movie night tomorrow?”

The rapid topic change combined with the fact that he had completely forgotten about their movie plans until that exact moment caused Courfeyrac to only manage a distracted nod as he tried to straighten out his thoughts.

“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow then; I’ll meet you here tomorrow after class. And put some Neosporin on your face so it doesn’t get infected.”

And then he was gone, before Courfeyrac could manage to tell him it was okay, he didn’t need to feel like he had to come and thinking about it, _Mean Girls_ really wasn’t a ‘Combeferre’ movie. Courfeyrac sighed. Why was he doing this? Why was he _like_ this? Why couldn’t he fall for someone who wasn’t so spectacularly out of his league, or even just not his best friend?

Courfeyrac began a slow walk to his apartment, these questions assaulting his mind like rapid enemy fire. He almost made it before he heard an all too familiar voice calling out.

“Where you goin’, fag?”

Courfeyrac had reached the end of his rope. He didn’t care anymore. He hardly reacted to the approach of the three men, only stopping, standing still with his head down. Might as well get it over with.

“You’re boyfriend tell you to get lost yet?”

Courfeyrac let out a sigh, letting his eyes slip closed. He was tired.

“You hear me, gay boy?” One of the men leaned down, trying to meet Courfeyrac’s gaze. “I asked you a question.”

When Courfeyrac still didn’t respond, the man shoved him in one quick, rough movement, and Courfeyrac didn’t even try to catch himself.

“What’s wrong, huh? You finally realize how fucked up you are?” The man’s friends snickered, but Courfeyrac kept his eyes closed, not even trying to stand back up. This would be easier if he just stayed down.

“Or did he realize how fucked up you are?” the man crouched down to Courfeyrac’s level, tilting his head to the side as he put on a sickly sweet tone of sympathy that caused a phantom taste of burnt sugar on the back of Courfeyrac’s tongue.

“He seems just as fucked up as this fag, though” one of the man’s friends crowed, and at this Courfeyrac’s eyes opened.

“That is true,” the crouched man drawled. “Maybe next time we’ll have to say hello to him, too.”

“Leave him alone.”

“What was that? You finally got something to say?”

“I said,” Courfeyrac lifted his head, meeting the man’s gaze with cold eyes. “Leave. Him. Alone.”

The man paused for a moment, a smug grin snaking its way across his face, before he leaned forward so close to Courfeyrac’s face that their noses were almost touching. “And who’s going to stop me? You? Are you going to stop me from beating his fag face in until you can’t –”

Hearing this piece of filth talk about Combeferre made something in Courfeyrac snap. He had always been a generally happy person. Jehan had once suggested that hanging around Courfeyrac would provide one with a healthy supply of vitamin D, so sunny was his personality. But right now, Courfeyrac wanted nothing more than to hurt this person in front of him. He wanted to hurt him so badly that it almost scared him. But then he pictured Combeferre, these men doing those horrible things to him, to _his Combeferre_ , and his vision went red.

Courfeyrac launched a fist at the man’s face, his hand positioned just like how Grantiare had once taught him when he had begged the man to show him how to box. It was a good hit, smacking the man right in the nose and knocking him flat. While the leader was down, the other two men came up on either side of Courfeyrac, going for his arms. Acting on pure instinct now, Courfeyrac swung his arms wildly, managing to catch the man on his right in the face, but his left arm only glanced off the third man’s shoulder. Once the third man got a hold of him, Courfeyrac knew it was game over. He was not a large person, in neither height nor weight. These men were all well-built, had an athletic look about them. Any one of them had a good fifty pounds on Courfeyrac, and against all three of them, he didn’t stand a chance.

By this point, both of the men that Courfeyrac had managed to get a piece of had gotten back on their feet, the man on his right grabbing his other arm without trouble this time. The leader was once again in front of him and, Courfeyrac noted with an odd sense of pride, blood was dripping out of the man’s nose in little rivulets. This, combined with the murderous look in his eyes and the way he was bearing his teeth like a cornered wolf, almost made Courfeyrac regret his actions.

Almost.

“You shouldn’t have done that, fag.” He growled, spit flying from his mouth. The man reared back his fist, and if it weren’t for the two men holding his arms roughly behind his back, Courfeyrac would have fallen to the ground with the impact of the blow. It landed right on his left eye, and a distant part of his brain noted that Bahorel would be very impressed by the shiner that was going to leave. Courfeyrac didn’t have much time to ruminate on that thought, however, as the barrage of fists continued. Not limiting himself to just his face, the man roughly assaulted his head, his chest, his stomach. Eventually, it just became a confusing blur of pain and Courfeyrac couldn’t really say where specifically he was being hit.

He was dropped to the ground, and then the kicking began, causing his chest to feel like it was about to burst. The oddly calm thought that he very well may die right here was just running though his mind when he realized the assault had stopped. Not having the strength to lift his head, Courfeyrac merely cracked the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut open and turned his head fractionally to look up.

The three men were staring off into the distance, frozen in place as if listening hard. Courfeyrac tried to listen too, but he couldn’t hear much of anything over the ringing in his ears.

“Shit,” one of the man hissed, turning to run off with one of the other men in tow. The third man, the leader, knelt down, gripping the front of Courfeyrac’s jacket to drag him up to be nose to nose with his attacker.

“You’re dead next time I see you, fag. You hear me? You and your boyfriend.”

The man dropped Courfeyrac and ran off. Lying there on the pavement, Courfeyrac barely registered the rising sound of a police siren approaching, and realized he should try and flag the officer down. Rolling onto his stomach was a lesson in agony, but after a few moments of pure effort, Courfeyrac managed it. Next, all he had to do was push himself up enough to wave his arms. It was too late, however, when the car sped past on the crossroad down the street, the siren fading with the distance.

“Wait,” Courfeyrac croaked, his voice barely above a whisper as he raised a shaking hand after the car. “Come back,” He let his hand fall back down and squeezed his eyes shut as the tears finally came. “Please…”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Courfeyrac didn’t attend his classes the next day. Even if he had the energy to make it out of bed, he never would have been able to explain how beat up he looked. The night before, after lying in the street for what felt like hours, Courfeyrac had finally gotten the strength to push himself up and limp his way back to his apartment. Before he could help it, Courfeyrac had clearly heard Combeferre’s doctor voice in his head telling him that he had better clean his wounds before they got infected, but the thought of the tall man had just caused Courfeyrac more pain. Still, he hobbled to the bathroom, and when he looked at his face in the mirror, he couldn’t suppress a miserable sob.

He looked just about as bad as he felt. The first punch had, in fact, resulted in an impressive black eye, just above the scrape the pavement had caused on his cheek the day before. His lip was split down the middle and blood had leaked from his swollen and tender nose, leaving twin cracked dark red lines of dried blood. He wondered if it was broken. The left side of his forehead was lined with jagged scrapes which blood oozed from lazily. His hair was more of a mess than usual, sticking out in ratty clumps and jumbled patches with his signature springy curls lying limp with grime and mud.

Courfeyrac knew he should take a shower, change his clothes, and probably tape up his ribs, which had been screaming in protest with every breath since he had gotten through his front door. As it were, he had just enough energy to drag himself over to his couch and flop down, staring blankly at the wall. Here Courfeyrac remained for an indeterminate amount of time, occasionally slipping into unconsciousness, where he dreamed of fists and pain, of the men’s words coming out of Combeferre’s mouth, of being rejected by all his friends as pathetic, weak, disgusting –

_Thump Thump Thump._

The sound jerked Courfeyrac awake, and he looked around wildly for its source, not really knowing if it had been real, or just part of his dreams.

_Thump Thump_. “Courfeyrac?”

Panic gripped Courfeyrac’s heart. Though that muffled voice had been weaved into his dreams, in this instance it was all too real. Courfeyrac didn’t know what to do; if he ignored Combeferre, the man would find his own way in, being the natural worrier that he is. However, he also couldn’t think of a way to answer the door without Combeferre seeing the state he was in. These weren’t simple scratches he could explain away.

“Courf, are you in there? I’m starting to get worried…”

His time was up. Levering himself off the couch proved about one thousand times more painful than he thought it would be, but eventually Courfeyrac managed to get to his feet and limp painstakingly to the front of his apartment. Upon reaching the door, he leaned his sore, throbbing head against its cool surface, feeling like the distance between himself and the man on the other side was far greater that the small width of his door.

“What do you want?” Courfeyrac hadn’t meant to sound so snappy, but couldn’t deal with Combeferre right now, not when he knew the man would go into full on doctor mode if he saw him, asking questions that Courfeyrac couldn’t answer.

There was a pregnant pause before a response came, but after a few moments of silence, Combeferre’s deep voice came through the door. “Courfeyrac, let me in.”

Courfeyrac squeezed his eyes closed, willing the sting of tears to subside. He couldn’t explain to Combeferre what happened, couldn’t tell him about the frat boys or the insults they hurled straight through his skin and into his core. He couldn’t let Combeferre know how he felt.

“Go away.”

There was harder pounding from the other side of the door then. “ _Courfeyrac! Let me in right now!_ ” His voice was loud and about an octave higher than normal, but Courfeyrac couldn’t reply through the lump in this throat. “Seriously, Courfeyrac, I will break this door down if I need to! Tell me what’s wrong!”

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go! Courfeyrac needed Combeferre to go away; he couldn’t see him like this. Drawing in a shaking breath, Courfeyrac pounded his own fist against the door. “Goddammit, Combeferre, I don’t want to see you! Just go away and leave me alone!”

“Courf-”

“ _Go the fuck away_!” Courfeyrac was crying in earnest now, his voice coming out rough and cracking. “You can’t fucking fix everything, Combeferre! Did you ever stop to think about that? Just go away! _I don’t want you here!_ ”

Courfeyrac slid down the door and drew his legs up, burying his face in his knees. Sobs ripped themselves from his chest like it was trying to burst open, causing his ribs to scream in protest, which only made him to cry harder. Courfeyrac snaked his hands up into his hair, tugging hard.

What had he done? _‘What he had to do,’_ a part of his mind supplied. Combeferre probably hated him now, which meant the he would never know how Courfeyrac felt. Somehow though, this knowledge did nothing to comfort Courfeyrac.

He was struggling now to draw anything but sharp breaths that stabbed into his lungs like a knife. His vision was starting to go fuzzy at the edges and his head felt light, like it was somehow in danger of floating away from his body.

_‘I’m dying,’_ Courfeyrac absently realized, and he was suddenly struck with the fact that, if he were to die here, he would die alone, and his last act had been to scream hatred at the man he loved…

… _Combeferre_ … He suddenly had such a strong urge to see the other man, it physically hurt. To just get to see his face one more time, to hold those surgeon steady hands, hear that resonate voice that Courfeyrac could feel in his chest-

“Courfeyrac!”

He wanted to see him so badly, he was now imagining Combeferre’s voice. At least, he thought he heard it over the sharp wheezes of his breathing. But then there were vice grips on both his arms, and he was fairly sure that wasn’t his imagination, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hands from his hair to look up.

“Courfeyrac, you need to breath,” the voice was saying. “Please, Courfeyrac, breath with me. In, out, in, out,”

The voice was comforting; it broke through his cage of panic and helped to pull his seemingly floating head back down to earth. Now that he had started down this road of hyperventilation, however, he couldn’t seem to pull himself out. He tried to convey this to the man kneeling in front of him by jerkily shaking his head.

“I c-can’t… I can’t…”

“I know, I know it hurts, Courf, but you need to breath. Hold your breath, then push out as much of it as you can at once.”

Courfeyrac tried this, and after what felt like hours, his breathing was finally back to being somewhat normal. It still shuttered out of him like chunks of spoiled milk being poured out of a carton, but at least he wasn’t in danger of oxygen deprivation anymore. He still had his face buried in his knees though, hands fisted in his dark curls.

He could also still feel the hands on his upper arms – _surgeon steady hands_ ¬ their grip simultaneously demanding and comforting. Neither of them spoke for a time, however, the only sound breaking the delicate silence around them was Courfeyrac’s stuttering breathing. The grip on his arms never left, but the pressure somewhat abated as Combeferre ran his hands up and down the length of his arms. Courfeyrac didn’t even care that it caused flares of angry pain to crop up as his fingers passed over bruises under his sleeves.

“Courfeyrac, look at me,”

Courfeyrac decided the best way to deal with this demand was to pointedly ignore it. If Combeferre saw what happened to him, he would ask questions. Courfeyrac couldn’t answer questions right now. Not ever.

“Please, Courfeyrac, you’re-” the crack in the other man’s voice was so unexpected, it almost did make Courfeyrac look up. He had never heard such a sound come out of Combeferre’s mouth before. It was low and keening, and it very well may have been the saddest thing Courfeyrac had ever heard. “You’re scaring me, Courfeyrac.”

This admission made Courfeyrac peek up at the other man, and this was an immediate mistake. Combeferre’s hair stuck up in messy tufts and his glasses were askew on his face, dipping slightly farther down on the right side. And his eyes – usually warm, deep brown pools that Courfeyrac felt he could watch the other man’s thoughts form in – were red rimmed and wide with panic, searching Courfeyrac’s eyes with desperation.

Seeing him like this was too much. Courfeyrac didn’t have the energy to try to hide anymore; at this point, he just didn’t care. He just wanted this all to end. Lifting his head up, Courfeyrac allowed his face to be revealed, but he still couldn’t bring his eyes to meet Combeferre’s.

“ _Courfeyrac_ …” the name left Combeferre’s lips in a puff of air, as if it had been punched out of him. His hands slid up Courfeyrac’s arms to either side of his face, hovering just above his cheeks as if he were afraid the lightest touch would shatter the other man. “Courfeyrac, what… how… Oh, Courfeyrac,” He knew it had to be bad if Combeferre, one usually so eloquent and careful about his diction, was at a loss for words. And Courfeyrac wasn’t quite sure what finally broke the dam of tears inside him, the fact that Combeferre had no words for this, the fact that Combeferre was somehow here and his words were soft, if not tinged with grief. Even if it was just the fact that he hurt all over and Courfeyrac was so _tired_ of hurting.

Whatever the reason, Courfeyrac couldn’t stop himself form suddenly uncurling and flinging his arms around Combeferre’s neck, holding on so tightly it strained his muscles. “ _Combeferre_ ,” was all he managed to choke out before the tears came, and then his sobs were punctuated with a desperate “ _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it,_ ” over and over again.

Combeferre, after an initial moment of shock, brought his hands up, placing one around Courfeyrac’s middle and the other delicately on the back of his head, weaving his fingers into the limp curls he loved so much.

“Shh,” he whispered, “I know, it’s okay, Courfeyrac. It’s going to be okay.” He didn’t know what else to do besides rock them both back and forth, running his hand gently along Courfeyrac’s back. He knew something about Courfeyrac had been off for a few days now, and he had been hoping to weed it out of the other man during their movie night. But then, when Courfeyrac wouldn’t let him in, his voice sounding so… _not Courfeyrac_ as he spit all that vitriol through the door, that had been one of the most terrifying moments of Combeferre’s life. That’s when he knew there was something seriously wrong with his friend.

Neither of them were sure how long they stayed in that position tangled up together on the floor, but they didn’t move until Courfeyrac’s sobs had reduced to sniffs and hiccups, and Combeferre’s soothing words came unconsciously from his mouth as easy as breathing.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre finally broke their bubble of near whispers with a more serious tone. “If you won’t tell me what happened, at least let me take a look at you.”

Courfeyrac was still for a moment, but finally nodded and leaned back so that the other man could clearly see his face, though his eyes were still downcast. He could hear the hiss of breath as Combeferre sucked air in through his teeth at the sight of him. He must look pretty bad, Courfeyrac thought, as he was suddenly very aware of the crusty itch of dried blood on his face he hadn’t bothered to wash off the day before.

“Stay here,” Combeferre said after a moment of staring miserably at the face before him. Seeing Courfeyrac so bloody and roughed up looked utterly unnatural, like a flower that had been dipped in black paint, making it criminally somber.

“Okay,” Courfeyrac’s response was barely a whisper, making it very hard for Combeferre to drag himself away from the other man for just a brief moment.

Courfeyrac looked down at his hands, his mind numb to all thoughts. As he sat there listlessly, he couldn’t be sure if he was feeling an incredibly wide range of emotions, or nothing at all. He turned his hand around and experimentally pushed one of his bruised knuckles. There was a small comfort in the fact that he could put a name to the pain the pressure caused.

“Don’t do that.” Combeferre chastised as he returned with a wet rag and a small first aid kit – one Combeferre himself had years ago given to Courfeyrac, as well as identical ones to all their other friends. The memory stirred up the closest thing Courfeyrac had felt to happiness is the past few days. It was almost enough for him to smile. Almost.

Sitting again in front of Courfeyrac, Combeferre put down the first aid kit and held up the rag. He lifted one hand to grip Courfeyrac’s chin, but froze when the movement caused the other man to flinch away, as if he had expected Combeferre to strike him. The movement instilled both soul sucking grief and all-encompassing rage in him. _‘What happened to you?’_ Combeferre thought, and had to physically bite his tongue to stop the words from escaping his mouth. Now wasn’t the time for an interrogation. Not when there was a chance that Courfeyrac’s injuries were as bad as they looked.

Combeferre raised his hand slower this time, prefacing it with a soft, “Just going to tilt your head a little to the side.” This time, Courfeyrac didn’t flinch away, but there was still a glassy, unfeeling look in his eyes that Combeferre was not at all used to seeing there, and he hoped he would never have to see there again.

Lifting the wash cloth to his face, Combeferre began to wipe away the dried blood with as much gentleness as he would use were he to be wiping off a butterfly’s wing. He watched as Courfeyrac let his eyes flutter closed at the tender ministrations, and wondered at the identity of the last person to have touched this face, the identity of the person who could bring themselves to mar something so…

A wince from Courfeyrac brought Combeferre out of his thoughts. “Sorry,” Combeferre said quietly as he maneuvered the rag around the deep bruise around Courfeyrac’s left eye. It was a brutal punch that had left a mark such as this, and the thought of it made Combeferre’s blood boil.

After he had wiped away all the blood and grime from his face, Combeferre placed the cloth on the floor next to him and raised his hands to run them through Courfeyrac’s curls in search of hidden injuries. He again announced his actions before carrying them out, not wanting Courfeyrac to flinch away – _never_ wanting Courfeyrac to have that reaction to him again.

As soon as he began his search, Courfeyrac sucked in a hissing breath and Combeferre paused, confused, because his deft fingers didn’t feel any abnormalities. Upon seeing the other man’s questioning expression, Courfeyrac begrudgingly offered a hesitant reply.

“They um… they pulled my hair.” He swallowed hard, looking anywhere but Combeferre. “It’s sore.”

“ _They?_ ” Combeferre couldn’t help but exclaim. The idea of one person harassing Courfeyrac – _pulling his hair_ , oh god, how could anyone _do_ that? – was bad enough, but ‘they’ implied more than one. ‘They’ implied that a group of people had ganged up on Courfeyrac and Combeferre couldn’t keep some of his outrage out of his voice as he asked, “Courfeyrac, what happened?”

If Courfeyrac was going to give him an answer, the anger that had crept onto Combeferre’s tongue shut down any possibility of it. He just shook his head and looked back down at his hands, one of which was sporting quite the collection of bruises across the knuckles. You didn’t have friends like Bahorel and Grantaire and not know what that meant; Courfeyrac had punched someone, and punched them hard. He didn’t know whether to be proud or appalled.

Either way, Combeferre wasn’t going to push the other man for answers. He just sighed heavily and continued running his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair, using more care this time in trying not to pull on any individual strand. He found one lump toward the back about the size of an acorn, but Courfeyrac wasn’t showing any signs of a concussion, so there wasn’t much Combeferre could do about it.

“Will you tell me what else hurts?” Combeferre asked, knowing it was a gamble. Courfeyrac didn’t seem particularly willing to give up any answers at the moment, but he was hoping if it wasn’t about how he received the injuries, he might be a little more forthcoming.

After waiting in silence for such a long moment that Combeferre didn’t think he was going to get a response, Courfeyrac finally whispered, “My ribs,” and the med student breathed a sigh of combined relief and worry.

“This might be easier if you were to lie down,” Combeferre said, trying to approach the situation as if this was any injured person and not his best friend, the person he…

Courfeyrac didn’t respond, just uncurling from his current position to lay down on his back, grimacing all the way. When he finally made it to the floor, he let out a long breath and closed his eyes again. Someone who wasn’t Combeferre might have thought he was merely sleeping (Combeferre, of course, knew from years of being his closest friend that Courfeyrac’s leg twitched in his sleep, and thus wouldn’t have been tricked).

Again, not wanting to startle the other man, Combeferre narrated his movements. “I’m just going to lift your shirt a bit to get a look, if that’s okay.” When Courfeyrac made no indication to the negative, Combeferre took that as a sign to continue.

When Combeferre gently hiked up Courfeyrac’s shirt up, he was suddenly very glad the other man’s eyes were closed, because there was no way he could hide the look of pure horror on his face. Courfeyrac’s entire torso was a nebula of bruises. These weren’t just from fists, these were from kicks. It made Combeferre want to cry.

Placing his hands gingerly on Courfeyrac’s stomach, Combeferre took it as a positive sign when the contact didn’t cause him to flinch as it had before. As he worked his way slowly up his ribs, Courfeyrac let out a small cry as one slightly gave way under the pressure.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Combeferre was fairly sure there was no worse feeling in the world than causing Courfeyrac to make that sound. “One of your ribs is cracked.”

Courfeyrac didn’t reply and Combeferre made quick work of checking his other ribs, thanking any god that might be listening that there weren’t any other cracks or breaks. He then wrapped Courfeyrac’s ribs as best he could, knowing that he really should take the other man to the hospital to be sure it really was only the one rib, but a hospital visit meant answering a lot of questions, and Combeferre knew if Courfeyrac wasn’t willing to confide in him, he definitely wouldn’t be up for talking to an unknown doctor or nurse.

“I’m all done here,” Combeferre said. “Unless there’s something else that hurts?”

Courfeyrac silently shook his head. With Combeferre’s help, he sat up again, and after a moment of allowing Courfeyrac to catch his breath, Combeferre said, “We should move to the couch so you can rest,” and Courfeyrac responded wordlessly again, nodding his head and slowly, leaning heavily on Combeferre, made his way across his small apartment and to the couch.

Once he was settled, his head leaning back against the back cushion of the couch, stretched out at a slightly odd angle to remove the pressure from his aching ribs, Courfeyrac felt that he would be extremely content if he never had to move again. Especially when Combeferre sat down gently beside him, their legs touching. It was a steadying presence, a gentle reminder that Combeferre was there, but not pushing. It was a gesture that screamed Combeferre so loudly and truly, that Courfeyrac couldn’t stop himself from saying,

“It was because I’m pan,”

The non sequitur came out of his mouth almost without emotion, and he wasn’t really sure why it was this particular admission that he had verbalized. But he still refused to look over at Combeferre, even after it had been said.

“Courfeyrac, that’s… that’s _beyond_ incredibly ignorant and cruel. No one should be made to feel ashamed of who they love. You know that.” A pause. “You _do_ know that, right?”

In theory, Courfeyrac did know this. There was no one louder at the pride parades than himself. Combeferre didn’t know what he was saying, however. Didn’t know that he was the one who Courfeyrac…

Courfeyrac nodded. “Yeah.”

There was another long draw of silence. Somewhere, a faucet was dripping. Courfeyrac had been meaning to fix that for a week now.

“You have to report whoever did this.”

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac knew this was coming, but he wasn’t sure how to respond to it. “I-I don’t really know-”

“Well, I do, Courfeyrac!” After the outburst, Combeferre immediately checked his anger. “These people… _assaulted_ you,” he shuttered out the word “assaulted” like it had physically pained him to say. “Assault charges are taken very seriously. Especially when there’s…” Combeferre swallowed hard. “…physical evidence.”

“There was also a death threat.”

“ _What_?”

Why had he said that? Courfeyrac thought his mental filter must have been knocked loose by a fist because he had no idea why he was supplying this information.

“Courf,” Combeferre waited until Courfeyrac peaked over at him to continue in a low voice. “These bastards _threatened your life_?” The swear threw Courfeyrac off. So did the unbridled rage in the following statement. “Who did this.”

Courfeyrac sighed shakily. “I don’t want you calling the police-”

“Courfeyrac, what they’ve done is-”

“Yet.” Courfeyrac broke in. He leaned back again and closed his eyes. The area around his left one was still throbbing dully. “I don’t want you to call them yet. I don’t – I can’t deal with that right now.”

Combeferre was silent for a minute, and Courfeyrac was just starting to think that maybe the other man was silently trying to dial the police anyway when the soft reply came. “Okay. In the morning.” Combeferre scooted himself closer to Courfeyrac, who almost unconsciously moved to rest his head on the med student’s broad shoulder. “We’ll call them in the morning.”

“Thank you,” his reply came out just above a whisper.

“But will you tell me who did this?”

A moment’s hesitation, then: “Three guys from the frat house down the road.”

“The Gatsby house?” The name came out of Combeferre’s mouth in the same tone he would have used to say “the deepest pits of hell.”

Courfeyrac nodded against his shoulder, and he felt Combeferre swallow hard in reply; swallowing down his anger.

“Thank you for telling me, Courf.”

They sat in silence after that. Courfeyrac wasn’t quite asleep, but something close to it. This close to Combeferre, he could breathe in his scent: vanilla, coffee, and something minty that Courfeyrac could taste on the back of his tongue. He had no idea what would come next, but he was just so tired, he really couldn’t bring himself to be too concerned about it at the moment. Of course, Combeferre then had to choose that exact moment to say:

“How did those frat guys know you’re pansexual?”

Courfeyrac was suddenly very awake.

He lifted his head off of Combeferre’s shoulder great force and regret. Staring up at the ceiling, Courfeyrac pushed air out of his nose and bounced his leg in nervousness. He couldn’t live like this. It was tearing him apart, turning him into someone he wasn’t. He had to tell him and be done with it; it wasn’t fair for him to keep this from Combeferre. Best tell him so he can steer clear of Courfeyrac.

“It was… um…” Deep breath. “It was because they saw me with you.”

“What?” It was not anger that colored Combeferre’s response, but confusion. “You being seen with another man automatically disqualifies you from being straight?”

There he was, being so endearingly blind again. Why was he making this so difficult? “No. Well, yes. Kind of.”

Combeferre waited for Courfeyrac to continue, but when he didn’t, he furrowed his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“When it’s _you_ I’m with, then yes.” Courfeyrac braved a peak over at Combeferre, and his face was frozen in an odd mixture of concern and something else… He quickly looked back down at his lap, examining his bruised knuckles with renewed interest. “I…” Another deep, stuttering breath. “They see how I look at you when you’re walking away, how long I stare at the corner after you go around it,” Courfeyrac’s voice cracks at the end, and he huffs out the next sentence in an effort to avoid that happening again. “I’ve got to be pretty obvious by now.”

There is silence for a long while after that. Or maybe it’s only a few seconds. Courfeyrac isn’t really judging the passage of time very well right now. Every second drags by like it’s holding on with everything it’s got, determined to make Courfeyrac feel every last intricate moment.

“Courfeyrac, what are you saying?”

“That if I had a flair for the dramatics, I’d grab you and kiss you right now.” It’s meant to come out joking, but the strangled tone in his voice makes it fall flat. He’s quick to begin damage control. “I know that’s… _stupid_ of me, and I get it if that creeps you out, and we can just forget I said anything because you’re my _friend_ and I really don’t want to lose you –”

“ _Coufeyrac_ ,” It’s almost more breath than voice, but it cuts Courfeyrac’s rant off as effectively as any shout would have. Combeferre sat there with a bewildered look on his face, on his dark cheeks there was a slight dusting of pink, which makes Courfeyrac notice for the first time in the back of his mind that it matches the baby pink t-shirt he is sporting. He had completely forgotten about their movie night, but apparently Combeferre hadn’t.

The med student’s lips are moving like he wants to say a hundred different things at once, but what comes out is “Courfeyrac, you are the most dramatic person I know.” And judging by the look on Combeferre’s face, it wasn’t what he was planning on saying.

“I know,” Courfeyrac said, just as quietly. It sounds like an apology.

“And it’s why I love you.”

Now Courfeyrac is sure he has sustained some sort of brain damage. It is very possible that he died earlier and is now hallucinating in some sort of Great Beyond. But no, if this really were the afterlife, surely Courfeyrac could have come up with a much more suave reply than “Huh. Yeah. What?”

Now it’s Combeferre’s turn to sound unsure, though the corner of his lip curls up hopefully on one side. Suddenly Courfeyrac finds it very hard to look away from those lips.

“I said I love you.”

“Oh.”

“And I love how dramatic you are.”

“Oh.”

“So you should kiss me now.”

“ _Oh_.”

It was only now that Courfeyrac realized he had been leaning closer and closer to the man in front of him with each “oh” and he was now only a breath away. Was this really happening? Was he really about to _kiss Combeferre_? He slowly began to close the small distance when suddenly Combeferre pulled back a fraction.

“Wait, your lip is split, I don’t want to –”

And then, because Combeferre was right – Courfeyrac really did have a flair for the dramatics – he cut Combeferre off by pressing his bruised and cut lips to the pristine ones before him.

It wasn’t a particularly long kiss, and chaste enough that even Marius wouldn’t be too flustered by the intimate descriptions he was going to get of it later on. But to Courfeyrac, it was the most wonderful thing he had ever felt in his life. It was like a dream but better. It was real and solid and warm and soft and so entirely _Combeferre_ , and Courfeyrac felt more at peace than he had that entire week, possibly in his entire life.

Combeferre was the one to finally lean back, and the pure happiness radiating off his face was enough to cause Courfeyrac’s insides to squirm in giddiness. Bringing one hand up to lightly touch his own lips, Combeferre said, breathless, “You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that.”

“Really?”

When Combeferre blushed this time, it was out of embarrassment. “I thought I was being incredibly obvious. I’m not always exactly… deft in showing my emotions, but with you it was worse.” Combeferre laughed and reached out to hold Courfeyrac’s unbruised hand. Courfeyrac returned the grip like that hand was his lifeline. It kind of was. “I guess we both had trouble communicating.” His face suddenly grew deeply sorrowful and he squeezed Courfeyrac’s hand tight. “I can’t even tell you how _sorry_ I am that you had to suffer like this all because I couldn’t work up the courage to say anything.” His eyes were becoming red rimmed again, and Courfeyrac decided he had seen enough of Combeferre crying for a lifetime and then some, so he reached out his other hand to place it softly on the cheek of the man before him, marveling at the fact that this was something he was now allowed to do.

He looked deep into Combeferre’s emotive eyes, as if they held the answer to a question he had been asking his entire life. They kind of did. Taking a deep breath, Courfeyrac spoke in his most serious tone.

“Combeferre,” He began, and the sharpness in the other man’s face told him he had his undivided attention. “I would take getting punched in the face a million times if it meant I got you in the end.”

It was stupid and the juxtaposition of the ridiculous comment to Courfeyrac’s serious tone made them both laugh, but they both also knew that Courfeyrac had meant it. In Courfeyrac’s eyes, Combeferre would always be worth it in the end.

Still not completely sure of his place, Courfeyrac asked, almost shyly, “Can I kiss you again?”

By way of an answer, Combeferre leaned in and, just as gently as before, put his lips to Courfeyrac’s. It was longer than the last one though, and had the possibility of becoming something more when Courfeyrac’s hand snaked up to the back of Combeferre’s neck, and Combeferre responded by tightly gripping the sleeve of Courfeyrac’s shirt.

Without warning, Courfeyrac pulled back and Combeferre’s eyes sprung open in surprise. “How did you get in here?”

The question surprised Courfeyrac as much as it did Combeferre. He wasn’t sure why he thought of it, but now that he had, he realized he had a point; he had been leaning up against the only door that lead into his apartment at the time of Combeferre’s arrival.

Combeferre blushed and looked away then, suddenly becoming very interested in the ratty old afghan that was thrown over the back of the couch. “I may or may not have broken one of your windows.”

“You what?”

“I was scared,” Combeferre responded somewhat defensively, looking back at Courfeyrac and he could see in the med student’s eyes that he meant it. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

This time, when Courfeyrac closed the space between them, it was to wrap his arms around Combeferre’s broad shoulders as best he could with his ribs taped up how they were. He buried his face into the soft space between Combeferre’s shoulder and neck, and the other man was quick to return the gesture.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac said in a small voice. “I didn’t want you to leave me.”

“I never would.”

Courfeyrac let out a long breath. He knew in the morning the police would have to be called and questions would be asked and things would get complicated, but it would be okay. Combeferre was with him now; Combeferre would be with him then. That was all that really mattered, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is my first les mis fic (and fic on ao3) so sorry for the ooc-ness as I settle into these characters. Also, my first fic of the fandom tends to be a feels/angst dump so... sorry bout that...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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